Somewhere in a family photo album is a picture of a towheaded toddler in a diaper, holding a child-size tennis racket under one arm and a tennis ball in his pudgy little hand. Thus from infancy is young Lucas groomed. Year-round lessons, a few weeks of tennis camp every summer. Musclini drags him out of bed at seven on weekend mornings to hit tennis balls. This, young Lucas will eventually realize, serves a dual purpose: practice for him and extra warm-up time for his father so that he’ll have an advantage over whomever he is scheduled to do battle with at eight.

Mom is the reader in the family, but over the years, the books on the shelves in the den give way to ever-multiplying tennis trophies. Dad reads, too, but only about strategy and winning. (At the country club, his name is annually inscribed in gold letters on the champions plaques — singles, doubles, mixed doubles. Young Lucas is often introduced as Richard Baker’s son.)

Lucas is eleven when Mom is assigned to drive him to regional tennis tournaments. Dad’s goal is for his son to earn a tennis ranking in the twelve-and-under category. (Lucas can recall winning only one match — against a kid who clearly hated being there even more than Lucas did.)

Actually, Lucas likes tennis. It’s fun to play with his friends. Fun to race after a ball and make a good return. Fun to come to the net for a winning put-away. At the country club, he plays with Arno and pre–Rat Fink Johnny. They’re on the courts for hours, rallying, trying out trick shots, and sometimes doing wacky stuff like seeing who can smack the ball the highest and farthest. They make up games like double-court doubles, where there are four on a side and you can hit the ball anywhere as long as it’s in one of the two courts. Many a summer evening, they play until it’s too dark to see, then lie down and stare up into the starry heavens, the residual heat from the sun-blasted courts warming their backs.

But Lucas hates the tournaments his father sends him to, which always feel weighty and crucial. Where the only thing that matters is winning. The more pressure to win, the more he chokes during important points. Then he gets down on himself and chokes even more until he’s trapped in a downward spiral and can barely get a ball over the net.

The only way to save face is to convince himself that he doesn’t care. He forgets the score, lets his mind drift instead of concentrating on the game, serves into the wrong box, tries ridiculous trick shots. Anything to demonstrate to himself and the world that winning isn’t important.